


Zâthra And The Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Thing

by beeapocalypse



Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mild Language, Orc Culture, Rating May Change, bhvhh its hard 2 think of tags for this bc its all abt the orcs, hell yeah babey we got some orcs!!!!, its abt mordors most put upon and suffering captain and his adventure in discovering ~friendship~, its all orc centric! talion will show up but he isnt the main focus, not the main focus of the mother content u know so the common tags dont apply, stuff like religion (the serpent) and the arts (the bard) as examples, this is all an exploration of uruk culture!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 01:33:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14033274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeapocalypse/pseuds/beeapocalypse
Summary: If there's good grog to go around and duels to watch, Mordor is a bearable sort of place. Or so goes the philosophy of Zâthra the Literate, Seregost captain and the (self proclaimed) single sane Uruk of the lands. If you keep your head down and your outpost well guarded, trouble won't come barking up your door. Unless, Zâthra finds, it is invited in by your Overlord.But worst of all was the other Captains. He has to put up with their shrakh, getting pulled into it too much for his liking just because he ran an outpost of his own. Zâthra had a working theory that as soon as any Uruk got a seat as Captain, they lose whatever smarts might’ve been rattling around in their brains and gets them replaced with the belief that they were untouchable.The worst. Zâthra the Literate was, without a doubt, the only sane Captain in all of Seregost.





	Zâthra And The Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Thing

**Author's Note:**

> local book nerd tries to just like. day drink and watch duels for fun, is accosted by worlds most chaotic captain
> 
> EDIT: this isnt abandoned i swear i just forgot abt it for like. a year auhghg  
> this chapters been edited to make note of krakhorn+his gang being OUTLAWS not marauders as previously planned thats really important to the plot lol but no actually story has been changed

“Orright now, hold up there for a moment. Nice and steady, just right there.” An armored arm was held out to block passage. Like it would do any good for even the least determined Uruk, the guard was trying to bar off the entirety of the fortress entrance with a single gesture. The Berserker standing behind him, glowering, was a more effective deterrent. 

“Name and title?” The Uruk seeking passage glanced up and blinked. Then stared. He had been too occupied with thrusting out an arm of his own to stop the gangly crossbowman besides him and sneering at the shocked look in that dull eye to get a good look at the guard. It- He looked like something had smeared his face to the left in the vat with a powerful jerk and mushed up the pulpy flesh into a horror show of a second face. Teeth jutted and broke chapped lips, a dead eye starred up towards the sky, and the working shared eye between the face that was currently staring down at a paper held in one gauntleted hand seemed to have a hard time focusing in on its target. 

“If you know how to point it out on a map, the location of your outpost would be good too.” Despite the bulbous growth sprouting from the side of his head, the Uruk spoke unheeded. The single truly functioning eye flickered up for a moment, then paused at the disgusted expression no doubt on the Captain’s face. “Oh, that there’s  Lamlûg. My head-brother.” He smiled, left tip of his lips pulling away towards the right of ‘Lamlûg’s’ and exposing gnarled gums. The Captain repressed the urge to gag. 

“Pugg Dead-Eye, at yer service!” The obnoxious, piercing, loathsome, high pitched, bloody  _ annoying _ voice of the crossbowman snapped the Captain out of his shocked silence. Of course  _ Pugg _ would overcome the surprise of the sight faster. He smacked a gauntlet upside the hooded head that hardly reached his shoulder with an amount of glee, speaking over the following yelp. “ Zâthra the Literate. If you’ve got a map, I’ve got my outpost.” It was hard to resist the urge to flash a toothy grin at the indignant Pugg. 

Guard-and- Lamlûg directed his ( _ Their? Lamlûg wasn’t exactly looking anywhere in particular _ ) gaze back down to his paper, giving  Zâthra time to process that some grunt left with sorting out those coming in for the Overlord’s meeting was  _ reading _ . It looked like a slow process and his right mouth moved as he almost inaudibly whispered out the words, breaths of them slipping out, and he ran a finger underneath them to keep the letters sorted out, but he was  _ reading _ . “Say…” 

The guard looked up expectantly. “Who’re you? Haven’t seen you around.” He puffed up with pride, thumping a fist against his chest with list forgotten. “I’m Ogbur! Ogbur the Twins, on account of  Lamlûg here.” It could’ve been the wind whistling by, but  Zâthra swore he could’ve heard a breathy wheeze slipping out of the left face’s mouth. “Cap’n and leader of the guard here. Overlord Krakhorn’s best mate!” 

There it was. The name of the sneaky shrakh Uruk that had swept into the fortress and stabbed ol’ Târz in the guts to take his leadership. He wasn’t wasting time in shaking up the old place if he had one of his own men checking names off of a list at his doorstep. Târz never had that level of security, he let Uruks waltz in and out as much as they pleased. Never called meetings for all of the Captains of his region either. Not that Zâthra would expect anything else from an Outlaw with lofty ideas.

“You say you were Zâthra? Big ol’ lug, you are.” Ogbur looked down at the crumpled parchment again and tapped his finger on one scrawled name in particular. “Here we are. Don’t see any Pugg though.” The crossbowman in question took in a deep breath, no doubt preparing to start hollering his complaints and whines. Zâthra stepped in with a smack of the hand, sparing everyone’s ears. “That’s because he isn’t a Captain. You mind if he waits out here with your friend?” A chorus of cracking knuckles came from the Berserker behind Ogbur. A low hiss of betrayed breath slipped out of Pugg Dead-Eye. “He might make a racket, but he’s as weak as a Tark. Just give him a good wallop if he gets too loud.”

“ _ CAPTAIN! _ ” Shrieked Pugg as Ogbur nodded and said, “Sounds orright! He can come into the fort if he likes, just not into the throne room. Lots of conspiratorial Captain stuff to be discussed there, y’know.” 

“Have fun Pugg.” Zâthra finally let out the gloating smile that had been building up, waving a smug in the archer’s face as he breezed past.  _ Today _ , He thought as he listened to the start of what would’ve been an unbearable moaning session get cut off with a smack to the head,  _ is shaping up to be good already _ . 

 

*****

 

Two weeks ago, there had not been a siege on the fortress of Seregost. While the happenings within the fortress were being revolutionized, Zâthra had been weighing the merits of drinking from the grog barrels that he had  _ liberated _ from a nearby camp. It stunk like Caragor dung and when he stirred it around in its wooden cup, he saw chunks cling to the bottom. He knew that the most reliable grog maker, some old affable Olog he never got the name of, had died one week ago. Poisoned by a bad batch of his own stuff. Most of the Captains Zâthra had heard talking about thought it was an honest mistake. He thought it had been a calculated killing. 

Two weeks ago, a messenger came running and gasping up to Zâthra as he was about to take an experimental sip of this new wild card grog to tell him that four days ago Overlord Târz had been killed. Some outsider Outlaw named Krakhorn had done the backstabbing, sneaking into the fortress by bribing some guards and slitting some throats. Some outsider who had proclaimed himself the new Overlord and wanted every Captain under  _ his _ command to be rounded up in  _ his _ fortress for a meeting two weeks in the future. 

Zâthra the Literate was a Captain. Unfortunately. It was all too much bother for him. Has to look after the lads under his command, has to figure out how to get supplies whenever the quartermaster or the delivery caravans decide to dick him over, has to carry himself a certain way- act as a model to the lads. But worst of all was the  _ other _ Captains. He has to put up with their  _ shrakh _ , getting pulled into it too much for his liking just because he ran an outpost of his own. Zâthra had a working theory that as soon as any Uruk got a seat as Captain, they lose whatever smarts might’ve been rattling around in their brains and gets them replaced with the belief that they were untouchable.

The worst. Zâthra the Literate was, without a doubt, the only sane Captain in all of Seregost. Perhaps all of Mordor, if the horror stories he caught from runners delivering messages and supplies were anything to go by. And now some glob calling himself Krakhorn the Vanguard was calling all of these mad Uruks together to sit in one room for an extended period of time. Zâthra mulled over the possibility that it could be an elaborate death ploy- get them all together only to have them chopped down or even just wait for them to do it themselves- then realized it would be a good show to see what would happen and made up his mind. If he was going to be dying under the rule of some outsider, he’d be doing it while watching the other Captains acting like Morgai flies had burrowed deep enough into their brains to replace them. 

And if it did turn out to be a plan to kill them all, he could at least take Pugg so the insufferable glob would suffer the same fate. 

 

*****

 

The first time a pack of Uruks passed by, all toting weapons and armor with the looks of grunts shoved into doing the worst of the work, Zâthra didn’t react to it. He had a place to be- the throne room, the possible resting place of the Captaincy of Seregost- and a thing to do- possibly die. But the second, and then the third and the fourth in quick succession, caused pause. That was an  _ awful _ lot of metal to be sharpened up and have dents hammered out. 

In fact, there was an  _ awful lot _ of everything going on within the fortress. Buzzing like a fly nest. Zâthra looked to the south wall and saw an Olog, garbed in thick furs and holding an unfurled scroll in hands meant for skull crushing, not craftsmanship, gesturing at it as one of his followers nodded along and interjected on occasion. Renovations? To the left, a Caragor and its handler brushed past with a strong stride. The red fist of the Outlaws was emblazoned on flags, burned into wood, painted on the armor of passing uruks and seared into their eyes.

It was a stark change from the lazy drawl of Târz’s leadership, that was for sure. Zâthra eyed an armor runner that passed by, appraising a plumed, mannish helmet grasped in hands that were barely enough to carry the whole load. Peered back at the Olog who was now crouching down to properly look at a tar pot high above on the wall from his cohort’s angle. Caught sight of the wicked grin that was growing on that brutish face, the gestures that grew more rapid in pace with the apparent epiphany that had taken ahold of the two. He looked all around him, at the fortress in its entirety, and was taken by the realization that perhaps a change in leadership wasn’t as bad of a thing as it had first sounded like. 

“Oi! You one a’ the Captains here to meet wit’ the Overlord, or are you just lost?” The abrasive shout, so close and unexpected to him had Zâthra finally tearing his eyes away from the sight of the wall duo. Oh. Stood before him, in its recently polished and varnished glory ( _ the scent of it still hanging in the air- he had caught a rumor that the new Overlord appreciated appearances and that shown in the shiny wood door frame staring back at him _ ) of the throne room entrance. Beside it, slouching on a spear with shield propped up against the wall, was a guard that was peering at the Literate with piggy eyes that carried mounting suspicion. Yes. The Overlord, the entire reason why he was here. 

The question seemed unnecessary. Pointless. Zâthra gestured sharply at himself, the armor he wore that was as polished as he could get it and the way in which he carried himself ( _ straight backed and with head held high. You walk like the average glob, you soon start mimicking more than just their posture. Or so the Literate held as truth _ ). “Do I look like I’m lost? Let me past.” 

Perhaps it was the appearance, or the command in his voice, but the guard took only another moment to leer before moving aside the spear he had shoved in the way of the door. “Head on right in,  _ Captain _ . We dragged out some tables fer this and set them up right in the center. Can’t get lost.” 

Zâthra resisted the urge to let loose a sneer of his own just to rise to the challenge within the Uruk’s eyes, and strode with confidence into the throne room of Overlord Krakhorn the Vanguard.

**Author's Note:**

> theres the first chapter! its a little shorter than what i intend to be the average length but im happy w it i dont think ill be sticking to a solid upload schedule beyond hopefully a chapter a week bbvhh
> 
> EDIT- oh my god ghfdh its been like. a year since ive updated this auhgh i completely forgot abt it for a while but ive gotten back into Hyperfixtation Hell w shadow of war so im going 2 update this again !!!!


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